Darling Boy
by Hecate's Wrath
Summary: His words are like poison, but you can't help it; you just drink it in, drink it up, because what would you do without him?


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the lyrics to Rob Thomas's _Her Diamonds_.

_For Zach, who broke my heart, and Dan, who put me back together again._

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_-And she says oooh  
I can't take no more  
Her tears like diamonds on the floor  
And her diamonds bring me down  
Cuz I can't help her now-_

--Rob Thomas, _Her Diamonds_

He's that bright shade of elegant that hurts your eyes like the sunshine, but he's a darker light than it is and he _burns_.

(The sun burns, too, but in different ways. When the sun burns you, it goes away. Draco's burns are like brands of fire on your soul that never heal. He's burning you alive and all you can do is smile.)

You're sure he can read the hurt in your eyes and even as you go along with it (because are you fucking kidding? He's Draco Malfoy and you're Pansy Parkinson and this is _how it's supposed to be_), you die a little bit on the inside. This love is painful and hard and you _hate_ the way it controls you.

You want this to work. You do. Because this is how it's supposed to be.

But then it all gets thrown away and he tosses that bitch Astoria in your face and all you can do is cry and scream and break things (_he's_ good at breaking things--he's broken you til you're nothing more than a broken china doll, sad and worthless).

And that poison pours from his lips, and you drink it in, drink it up, because you want to believe that he's not the cold-hearted bastard you both know he is and because you will believe what you want to, you suck that poison up like it's going to fix you somehow.

It doesn't. It just breaks you harder, shatters your heart into little pieces that can't ever be picked up, and Draco walks away like it's so much broken glass. He's just that way—because he knows everyone else will clean his messes up.

And you _hate_ him because he's the only one who could do this to you, hate him because he's the only one who could ever care enough to break you into tiny little pieces. And he plays with you, breaks you and puts you back together again and _oh_, but it burns and you _hate him_.

But there's no one there to sweep you up this time—no one to gather your pieces up off the floor, so you just lie there like shattered glass, throwing rainbows in the sunlight, and poisoned and spoiled and all you can do is cry those bitter, bitter tears that taste like poison as he rides off into the sunset with his princess.

And there are other boys, and men, boys and men with clumsy fingers who try to piece you back together, but they only make a bigger mess (because every time they leave, the pieces of your heart shatter a little more. Surely you're not hopeless). So you piece yourself back together as best you can—spell yourself together with some cheap red lipstick and sticky sweet perfume (he didn't like sticky sweet perfume and that's why you wear it, because you don't like it either). And you dress yourself up and patch yourself together with what you have and it's all held together like some house of cards and it's not a matter of if it'll come down, it's when and it's a smirk and a velvet voice that brings it down around your ears.

The bitch is holding a toddler that looks like him and he's in his business robes and they look so fucking content, playing happy families and it makes you sick. Because that should have been you, it would have been you, if only he hadn't decided you just weren't what he wanted. And he has the nerve, the audacity, to just march right up to you and ask how you are, because somehow he's made it okay that it's his fault you're the beautiful disaster you are today.

That darling boy you loved (still love) at 16 lurks under the cocky man who tries to charm you in the middle of Diagon Alley and he has the _nerve_ to talk to you as he enjoys his own happily ever after and you'd like to make him pay (you want to make him feel as desperate, as pathetic, as hopeless and broken as you feel), but he walks away a few minutes later, and you feel dirtier. Unworthy. Branded.

Broken.

And you're angry and you're frustrated and you can't do jack shit about your situation because it's just so fucking _fucked up_.

Because you're dependent on him—you need him and you want him and, Merlin, but it's painful. He's bad for you and you still want him and _he doesn't want you_.

So you sit down and you cry, because that's all you know how to do, because that's the only thing you've ever done and what else can you do?

It's days before you get back on your feet, because those burns on your soul haven't healed and you hurt all over, like you're burning alive. He's burning you alive and all you can do is cry.

But you go out, you have to, and you gather all those little pieces and you carry them around with you, because what else do you do with all the pieces of your broken heart? You hold them close, because it's all you've got left. Who's going to want you now? You're damaged, you're broken. All you;ve got to offer anyone is a seriously fucked up dating history and some pieces of a broken heart and you can't imagine anyone would ever want to deal with all your baggage and your shit and everything you bring with you.

And he rubs it in your face, how pathetic you are, how broken you are. Taunts you with that fucking knowing smirk and that beautiful little family and _this is what you wanted, but you can't ever have it. You're mine—_mine_—and don't you ever think otherwise._

Then one day, this beautiful boy walks into the middle of your nightmare and he asks you why you're dealing with this shit, why you let yourself get beat up and _isn't it obvious_?

You want to scream at him, grab him by the lapels and shake him til he sees, shake him til he _understands_ the kind of agony you live in. _Look at me_! You want to scream. _Do I look like this is what I wanted?_

But instead, all you do is cry and mascara traces its way down your cheeks in rivers of black and your glue dissolves with your tears and all the little pieces you tried to pick up and put back together just fall apart again and—

And he doesn't leave, doesn't walk away. He stays right there and watches you fall apart and then he picks up all the pieces and puts them back together again, snaps them into place and seals them with a kiss and he makes it _better_. He smoothes his hands over your arms, rubs the burises Draco left behind away, kisses those tears goodbye and you had forgotten how good it felt to be whole. Clean. Complete.

Loved.

And even though Draco has pieces of you you'll never get back (he's part of your story, your history, and as much as you hate him, he's a part of you, as much as you're a part of him), you are _better_ now and maybe happily ever after isn't as far fetched as you once dreamed.

END

AN: The boy who puts her back together is, in my mind, Blaise, though he can be whoever you want. :)


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